


All systems must bow

by technorat



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bad Guys Win, Dubious Consent, Emperor Kylo Ren, Governor Armitage Hux, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Kyber Crystals, Kyber Poisoning, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, M/M, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Partial Mind Control, Political Marriage, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Temporary Character Death, implied disordered eating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:27:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24462742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/technorat/pseuds/technorat
Summary: Kylo Ren is Emperor of the Galaxy.Hux is a traitor. Hux is a spy. Hux is his husband, collared and shackled with kyber.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 50
Kudos: 168





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is not the lightest sort of fic. Please keep the tags in mind and keep yourself safe. Chapter 1 could be considered the hurt, while chapter 2 could be considered comfort.
> 
> Warnings: temporary character death, dubious consent, what could be considered bad BDSM etiquette if Kylo Ren knew about BDSM probably, infidelity/cheating (brief KOR/Kylo Ren), implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced disordered eating
> 
> you can find me [here](http://gaygalaxyguy.tumblr.com) on tumblr and you can find me [here](https://twitter.com/gay_galaxy_guy) on twitter. Wishing you and yours well.

When Kylo Ren returns to the Steadfast, he finds Hux on the bridge.

Dead. On the floor. His limbs splayed out in every direction. His eyes are still open.

“Sir,” Pryde greets. The smile on his face never falters.

“Who killed Hux?” Ren asks.

“I did,” Pryde says. He doesn’t believe that he has overstepped his role. “He was the spy.”

“I am aware.”

Hux had been left on the floor for long, but left undisturbed by even a mouse droid. Like he was less than rubbish.

Ren doesn’t think. He snaps Pryde’s neck.

He falls to the ground when Pryde does. The Steadfast’s datapits grows silent. But he does not care what they think. He is the Emperor of this Galaxy, he is all of the Sith—he can do whatever the hell he wants.

Ren pulls Hux’s stiff, cold body onto his lap. The white bandage around his leg is laughable. As if it would have done anything to heal a blaster wound. As if it could have staved off infection. The soldering tunic is worse.

He presses their foreheads together and breathes out.

He needs Hux, needs that sort of familiarity in his Empire.

Hux comes back to life with a gasp, his eyes blown wide and afraid.

Never does Kylo Ren let him go.

*

Kylo Ren marries his fallen General.

It is a ceremony broadcast to the Galaxy where they promise loyalty to one another, as if Hux’s word meant anything at all. Kylo Ren wears his dark robes, a red cape replacing his old one, a silver pin of the First Order’s emblem clipping it to his shoulder. Hux wears loose robes, all white, that did not suit the First Order’s image at all.

Hux slips an obsidian ring onto Ren’s finger.

Ren has no ring for Hux. An officer kneels, holding up a velvet lined box. Inside it is a collar and a set of thick bracelets. He knows this. He designed them.

It is Ren who collars Hux and shackles his wrists, hate burning fiercely in Hux’s pale eyes.

They kiss for the holocamera, a chaste meeting of lips.

The Sith metallurgy is cold against Hux’s skin. This, Ren is sure.

Hux shivers. This, Ren is not sure why.

The holocamera finishes recording and puts itself away. Hux turns to go, but Ren catches his wrist and holds him there.

“What is it?” Hux snarls. His mouth is so very pink.

Hux was a traitor. Hux was a spy.

Kylo Ren wants Hux alive.

“Come with me,” he says. “To our quarters.”

Hux shudders once again, his pupils mere pinpricks.

*

In their quarters, Ren nuzzles against Hux’s neck, against the collar he had wrapped around Hux’s throat. Hux smells of his favorite cologne, of sea salt and sage.

The room is blindingly white, save for the black scuff marks on the floor, all that remains of Rey in this Galaxy.

“Have you ever kissed someone?” Ren asks.

“No.”

“No?”

Hux answered too quickly to be truthful. Ren snorts. He bends slightly and takes Hux into his arms, carrying him across the open room and to the bed.

There, Ren drops Hux unceremoniously, likely wrinkling the white robes beyond repair.

“Brute,” Hux spits.

Ren bares his teeth in a grin. He _is_ a brute. He is a monster. He is everything Hux could snarl at him and more. “All yours.” He strips Hux, peeling away the white robes and tossing them to the ground. He does not miss how Hux’s eyes watch this movement, how a furrow grows between his brows.

Hux crosses his arms before his chest. Shy.

Ren cups his cheek and kisses him, relishing in how Hux gives, his mouth opening. Hux sighs.

Ren pulls away. The sound that Hux makes goes right to his dick. “You want it?” he asks.

Hux sneers. “To consummate this sham of a marriage?” he says. But his legs are splayed, knees half-bent, his little cock pink and hard.

“What else?” Ren says. A little black bottle of lube comes flying to his outstretched hand. “Have you touched yourself?”

“Yes.”

Hux is all rosy red—cheeks, lips, shoulders, his chest, the tips of his fingers. He watches as Ren pours out lube onto his fingers, his pupils blown wide. His chest heaves at the first press inside him.

“O-oh.”

“Oh?”

Ren prepares him. He’s done the same for himself often enough to know the motions, to make it feel good.

“Wrap your legs around me,” Ren says, withdrawing his fingers.

Hux does so, lifting his hips. “Have you done this before?” Hux asks, his eyes half-lidded.

“Yes,” Ren says.

The original Ren. The Knights of Ren. Officers, Stormtroopers, whoever gazed at him with want plain in their eyes. He didn’t care. He knows what he wants, knows what he likes. And he’s not afraid to have both.

Ren enters him slowly, until he rests against the curve of Hux’s ass.

Hux scoffs. “Typical,” he says. “You rejected the Jedi and all their tenets.” He wraps his arms around Ren’s shoulders, holding him close.

Ren swats his thigh for that. “How do you feel?”

“Full.” Hux rolls his eyes.

Ren thrusts hard and fast, reaching a hand between their bodies, taking pleasure in how Hux’s legs tremble. He feels when Hux finishes and that sends him right over the edge.

“You’ll be governor of Birren,” Ren tells him, pulling out his softening cock. “But you’ll report to me. You won’t make a decision without going to me.”

Hux does not move, he lies boneless against the bed, his spend against his stomach. He blinks slowly, coming out of a fog. And then he swallows, his throat bobbing beneath the collar.

He stands, eventually, and Ren watches, his eyes raking down the pale, lanky form.

Hux goes to the fresher, come dripping down his thigh.

“Leave the door open,” Ren orders.

Hux thinks vile things, but does not say any of those colorful phrases out loud. He washes quickly and pulls on a robe, one of the things Ren has bought him. White, nearly translucent where it clings to his body.

Ren watches as he pads across the room, the collar and cuffs so dark against his skin.

“Come here,” Ren says.

Hux cocks his head. “Where else would I go?”

There is only one bed, after all, and Hux still thinks he deserves to sleep on one.

Ren reaches out and snags the large kyber crystal that hangs at the front of the collar. When he tugs at it, kyber thread unspools.

“This,” Ren says, “is insurance. So that you won’t try something stupid when you sleep.”

Hux blinks, pale again, his lips pressed into a fine line.

Ren drags the kyber thread across the cuffs, pulling them together, and then continues, bringing the largest piece of kyber to his bedpost. When he lets go, the thread stays, locking Hux mostly in place.

“What is this?” Hux asks coldly.

“A leash for my very special mutt,” Ren says, just as cold. “Lights, 0%.”

*

Ren wakes feeling the depth of Hux’s hatred.

Hux lies there in bed, his robe having slipped off a shoulder. “Will you untie me?” he says icily.

Ren snorts. “Since you asked so nicely.” He unwinds the kyber thread from the bedpost and his cuffs. But he does not let go. Master Snoke had some wisdom to share. Dogs go on leashes; the more disobedient the dog, the shorter the leash.

(And besides, he reasons, while Hux’s manor on Birren is being built, there is no need for Ren’s bed to be cold.)

“What are you doing?” Hux says. His voice is a hoarse, half-broken thing.

Ren tugs on the leash, forcing Hux to follow him out of the bed, bare feet padding across the cold floor.

“I called for breakfast,” Ren says, taking Hux to a corner of his quarters that masquerades as a breakfast nook. There, Ren lets go of the leash, and the crystal retracts until it is flush against the metal of the collar.

They sit across from one another, Hux only wearing his robe, Ren in less.

Hux does not speak. Instead, his hand rests at his throat, touching the kyber crystal very gently, as though it will bite him if he were less careful.

It is a droid that comes, covered trays resting in its hands. It places one before Ren and the other before Hux.

“That will be all,” Ren dismisses.

Hux has not moved, staring pensively into his own reflection.

Ren removes the covers. He had requested Bantha-butter pancakes, Gartro egg omelets, and fresh fruits cut neatly and coated in a layer of honey. He digs into his breakfast quickly.

(He had, after all, worked up quite the appetite that cycle.)

It seems that Hux is less than enthused. He picks at the fruit, eating little more than some exotic bird would.

“You don’t like it?” Ren asks.

Hux shakes his head. “I’m used to a smaller, simpler meal, Supreme Leader.”

“It’s Emperor now,” Ren says idly. He eats a slice of pear, bright and sweet. “Don’t forget.”

Hux sighs. He eats a little of the omelet but blanches and puts down the fork.

It is a questionable first breakfast for the married couple. Ren rests his cheek on his knuckles.

When it is obvious that Hux will eat no more, Ren orders a droid to return and take away the rest. He rises to his feet after and urges Hux to follow him to their shared bedroom.

Ren already knows which set of robes he wants Hux to wear to the Supreme Council meeting—a delicate set in white, golden stars embroidered to the upper layer of tulle. It is soft and delicate, utterly unbefitting the General that Hux had once been. But Ren is wounded still by the depth of Hux’s betrayal and, later, the weight of Hux’s death.

“Put this on,” he says, handing the robes to Hux.

Hux takes them, fingers trailing against soft fabric. But there is a sneer on his face. “Is this how it will be?” he asks. “You plan to dress me like a doll?”

Ren turns to him fully and takes in his form—his hunched shoulders, his bared teeth.

“Yes,” he says. “Now hurry. We still must meet with Supreme Council, husband mine.”

Hux snorts and does as asked. The robe is low-cut enough so that the collar remains visible, a reminder to all those involved in the Order.

When they stride through the halls of the Steadfast, officers and Stormtroopers salute or bow or do whatever gesture they feel is most respectful.

It's funny. No matter how things change, no one can meet Ren's eyes. No one but Hux.

The rest of Supreme Council—old men, long gone grey—are waiting for them in the conference rooms. Their gazes are heavy things. _Does Hux's collar feel more like a noose?_

Ren sits at the head of the table and gestures for Hux to stand beside him.

"Supreme Leader," one of those gathered says. He smells of stale sweat. Ren has no idea who he might be. "Congratulations on your nuptials."

The latter half is delivered with less enthusiasm.

Ren raises a brow. He lifts an arm and wraps it around Hux's waist, resting his hand on Hux's hip. He strokes his hipbone idly, even through layers of fabric. "Congratulate Hux too," he says.

The man squirms in his seat. "...Mr. Hux—“

"Governor." Ren takes pleasure in drawing the title out.

Birren is his. Had been his. It's his bloodright. He can make whoever he wants governor of that otherwise inconsequential planet. To let them live in comfort and security. And he had chosen the traitor Hux.

"Governor Hux," the man says like it pains him. "Congratulations. We watched your wedding on the holonews. It was broadcast across the Galaxy."

Hux is still at his side. Like a statue, just as cold. Like a star, just as distant. “Thank you," he says, finally.

His face is burning with humiliation, red hot in the Force where the rest of him is silent.

Ren tilts his head. "Let's get on with the meeting. Shall we?"

*

Cycles go by easily, as everyone grows accustomed to their new roles.

Ren spends long hours in his throne room on the Steadfast. The throne is specially built for him, large enough for him to sprawl comfortably however long he wants to linger. And it floats, inches above the ground.

He would bring this throne with him when he had a true capital.

(This throne's blueprints had been found in Hux's datapad. An old design. One that he had created for himself. _Ambitious_.)

And so because Ren spends long hours there, Hux too spends long hours in Ren's throne room.

Hux stands, because he is lesser than Ren, his hands clasped behind him in that perfect parade rest, despite the fact that he is no longer a General.

Every robe Ren had commissioned him is white, blindingly white, as far removed from a uniform as possible. Ren has forgotten, however, that whatever Hux wears he wears as a uniform—stiffly, with no compromise in that remorseless gaze.

Ren holds up a hand and he does not miss how Hux startles.

"What is it... Emperor?" Hux asks.

They are alone here. They will be alone here for the rest of the cycle.

Ren has scheduled this.

"Your manor on Birren has been built and furnished," Ren says. "You will depart for Birren next cycle."

Hux's breath hitches in his throat and then he inclines his head. A nod.

"You should thank me," Ren says slowly, never looking away from Hux’s lips. He would miss them soon enough. Ren spreads his legs further. “Kneel.”

Hux does so, slowly, lowering himself onto the dais. He looks good on his knees. “As you wish, Emperor.”

Ren chuckles. He unzips his pants and frees his cock, running his hand down its length. “Don’t forget to swallow,” he says, before relinquishing his grip.

But Hux remains there, still, a fierce blush running across his cheeks.

Ren reaches out and takes hold of the kyber crystal at his throat, pulling him close, so close that he can feel Hux’s warmth. “Go on,” Ren says, finger curling around the kyber thread.

Hux reaches up and settles his bare hands against Ren’s thighs. And then he lowers his head, licking at the tip of Ren’s cock.

Impatient, Ren tugs at the leash once again.

Hux takes him into his mouth, pausing for breath. He hollows his cheeks.

Ren sighs and leans his head back. This. _This_ is what he had wanted. He jerks on the leash when Hux attempts to retreat, humming something around the cock in his mouth. “That’s good,” he says. He lifts his hips, thrusting into the warmth of Hux’s mouth, faster and faster, until he releases.

Hux’s eyes water and he pulls away, coughing, come dribbling down his chin.

“Oh, dear,” Ren says, mimicking an Imperial accent. “It seems you’ve made a mess.”

And it is true. Hux had spat up onto the throne’s dais.

Hux stays there, on his knees, and spits out, “And what did you expect would happen if you choked me with your monstrous cock?” he says, voice raw and broken.

Ren releases his hold on the leash and instead reaches out, placing a hand atop Hux’s head. “Clean it up,” he says sweetly.

Hux swallows. Wets his mouth.

“Well?” Ren smiles. “I’m waiting.”

And so, slowly, Hux lowers himself further and licks the spend from the dais floor.

“Well done,” Ren rings out. The very image is one he will treasure.

“May I be dismissed, Emperor?” Hux asks, his voice small.

Ren leans back into his throne and tucks himself away. He pats his thigh then. “Sit,” he says.

And so, gingerly, Hux takes his seat on the only throne that he has earned, the lap of Kylo Ren.

*

Ren does not wake early enough to see his husband to Birren. Instead, he sends two of his Knights to join Hux on the rainy planet.

Only when Hux is gone does he realize just how dreadful it is upon the Steadfast.

No one talks to him. They merely simper and offer up whatever words they think he would like to hear. _Yes, your Imperial Highness. Apologies, Emperor. Thank you, your Imperial Highness_. Worse, even, there is no one left to look him in the eye with Hux on Birren and his Knights scattered in this smoldering Galaxy.

(He almost regrets sending Hux away. He does not admit this. There is no one to admit this to.)

And so he finds himself snooping through one of the datapads Hux had no choice but to leave behind.

After being discharged from the Order, Hux had no right to the classified documents, the intranet, all that the Order held as their own. But Ren did.

He pores through blueprints Hux had wrote, edited, those he had often seen to fruition (TIE fighters, the Silencer, so many Starfighters, as many as the stars themselves) and those that had been left forgotten (the throne, a Force suppressing collar).

And there are more documents still. Tasks that Hux had not seen through. Negotiations. Approvals. Tedious bureaucratic things that Hux had found some sort of purpose in.

Amongst these documents, he finds something curious.

Hux had never arranged Phasma’s funeral.

Further: Phasma’s body is still in storage, waiting.

Ren waits no more. He gathers himself and goes to the Silencer.

He knows exactly what to do.

*

The Finalizer had been repaired not too long ago. But still, he punished the ship. He punished himself. He punished Hux. The Finalizer shouldn’t have sustained such damage in the first place. Then they would not have had to move to the Steadfast, would not have had to lower Hux's standing, would never have seen the man dead on the ship's bridge.

Rage sits heavy in the pit of his stomach even thinking of that.

Now the Finalizer is useless, listing somewhere in the Outer Reaches. Ren is welcomed aboard by the ghost crew, with the few stationed there saluting sharply and nearly shitting themselves upon seeing his face. What fierce terror he now evokes with his Sith eyes.

(He should have eaten the Sith a long, long time ago, devoured their very souls. He should have set this Galaxy ablaze. He should have destroyed everything.)

Ren brings himself to the morgue. He cannot feel Phasma—her presence in the Force has long since faded. But he has his ways.

Her body is colder than Hux’s ever was, stiff too. He had never seen her without her helmet. Lying there, she is pale, a burn wound ravaging her face. Her hair is short. Blonde.

He does not know why he had expected her there in her armor.

Ren presses his forehead to hers and breathes out, breath steaming in the climate controlled room.

Phasma takes a deep gasp and rolls away from him, onto her feet. She looks ready to fight him, to hit him, to hurt him. But only for a second. Then she turns around and retches, little more than stomach bile.

She has been dead for over a year.

“Kylo Ren…?” Phasma manages. She looks at him with open contempt written across her face. Refreshing. “What the fuck happened?”

Ren snorts. “I’m Emperor,” he says simply. “Consider this a promotion. General.”

Phasma snarls, showing her sharp teeth. “General?” she repeats, incredulous. Then, fear. “Where’s Hux?”

“He’s on Birren. Governor.”

Phasma gives a sharp bark of laughter. And then the chill of the room settles into her bones. “What happened?” she repeats.

“You died. A year ago,” Ren says. “I brought you back.”

Phasma retches once again.

*

On the Steadfast, no one quite reacts to Phasma’s return.

How could they? They don’t even recognize her. Not without her shining armor.

Phasma walks with her head held high. Her eyes are so cold, frigid. Calculating. Ren had not thought much about her. Hux’s lackey. Barely loyal to the Order.

But he needs her now. Needs this familiarity yet again. Needs some sort of connection.

Needs to know what exactly lies between her and Hux.

She thinks about him. Strange. Thinks it’s odd that Ren is Emperor, not Hux. Thinks she doesn’t know everything. And she's right. She doesn’t.

Ren takes her to his office, the office he had taken from Hux. He seats himself behind the desk sinking into the leather chair. There are stacks of datapads here, left haphazardly. Also from Hux.

(If he shuts his eyes and inhales, he thinks he can smell Hux's favorite cologne.)

Phasma’s eyes are ice. She examines the room carefully. And then she leans forwards and catches Ren’s wrist.

The obsidian ring catches the light on his bare hand.

“When was the wedding?”

“A month ago.” Ren bares his teeth in the facsimile of a smile.

“Should I be offended that I was not invited, Emperor?” Phasma says dryly. He can see why Hux had so enjoyed her company. She can be... amusing in a violent, angry way.

“You can watch it on the holoweb,” Ren says. “It was broadcast to the Galaxy.”

It is still available to watch. It garnered… a strange amount of views. More than he would have expected, even now.

He talks to her. Tells her his expectations. His plans.

She is to be his General.

She has not betrayed him. Not yet.

And… he wants to feel her reaction to the holoweb footage. See what she thought of Hux. Truthfully. Fully. Totally.

He has long been curious about the strange thing between them. What had happened for Phasma to agree to help Hux kill his father? And if that sort of scheming would occur again.

Ren summons an officer, any officer, and commands the wretched thing to find appropriate quarters for General Phasma.

He has plans that she is not necessary for.

At least not yet.

*

His Empire runs more smoothly with a General such as Phasma overseeing the more mundane things.

Ren has more time for himself. Time he spends wisely.

He visits fabrications, fiddles with a special gift for Hux. He visits different planets, seeking out a suitable capital for his Empire. Mustafar. Moraband. Exegol. Onderon.

None of them call out to him. None of them are right.

Ren spends time in the training rooms too. He fights against the advanced droids that Hux had once created and tinkered with. They’re the only droids that leave him satisfied, fulfilled.

However, those droids are still not _enough_.

(Really, though. He has destroyed all the Jedi, laid waste onto the last Skywalker, left her corpse to rot beside her follows. No more Jedi will ever exist.)

(Who could he turn to now when bloodlust heated his veins?)

(Ah. His Knights.)

Ren summons home his Knights from the missions they’d been on. They bring him gifts: kyber, data discs, holocrons.

The Knights of Ren kneel before him. They smell of ozone, of ash, of those that they had slaughtered. Gore still coats their boots, their clothes.

“Rise,” Ren bids them. He is no longer their master and no longer are they subjugated by Snoke.

And so they rise.

Ren leads them through the halls, leads them to his room.

There, once the doors slide shut, the Knights rid themselves of their masks, their cloaks, their weapons. The Knights come from all corners of the Galaxy. Some human, some xeno. Some men, some women, some others.

They are powerful, they are beautiful. All strong lines and figures.

They make good use of the overlarge bed. All tangled limbs and mouths and teeth. One of the Knights preps Ren, their blue tentacles prodding at his entrance. Another Knight kisses him, her lips soft and plush against his own.

Ap’lek enters him first, grunting softly with every writhe, every twist of their tentacles. They mutter filthy things into his skin. “You like that, don’t you?” Ap’lek asks. “Even though you’re married, you can’t get enough.”

Ren grinds back into them. “Can’t exactly get enough,” he pants. “Not when my husband’s on a fucking planet.”

Ushar pulls away from Ren and Trudgen takes her place. Trudgen finds her throne on Ren’s face, urging him to eat her out.

Not that he needs encouragement.

Not when she’s warm and dripping and _there_.

“It’s your own fault,” Trudgen says, even though Ren’s tongue is inside of her. “You sent him away. Reap what you sow.”

Behind her, Ushar cuddles close, pinching and pulling at Trudgen’s nipples. And Trudgen likes it, letting out drawn out moans. Cardo sees to Ushar’s pleasure, entering her with his fingers.

Ap’lak finishes and Kuruk takes his place between Ren’s legs. Kuruk is generously endowed, his thick and long. And he sets a punishing pace, likely leaving bruises against Ren’s hips.

They give each other pleasure and take pleasure until each has had their fill. And then they remain there on the bed in a tangle of limbs, surrounded by the scent of sex and tabac.

Eventually, Ap-lak recovers and sees to cleaning. They bring warm, wet washcloths and wipe each Knight of sweat, slick, and spend.

Ren catches Ap-lak’s wrist when the Knight finishes cleaning him. “Why are you doing this?” he asks.

Ap-lak tilts their head. “I’m taking care of you,” they say. And then they blink, red eyes glinting strangely. “Like I hope you take care of your husband, after your activities.”

Ren huffs a laugh.

But Ap-lak does not move away. “Kylo Ren… I am uneasy.”

Ushar wriggles until she is sitting, shoving away Kuruk and Cardo’s errant limbs. “Does your General—”

“Governor.”

“Right. Does your Governor even know that you have had sex with us?” Ushar asks, a frown on her face.

Ren does not quite meet her eyes, instead settling on the curve of her breasts. Had she gotten a new piecing?

Ushar claps her hands together. “Pay attention,” she says unkindly. “You married a man. Does he know that you’re not exclusive with him? Have you made agreements?”

“I didn’t,” Ren says and he feels such coldness from his Knights.

“He has the right to know,” Cardo says, casting an eye upon the dark heap of clothing abandoned on the floor. An army of mouse droids would have to be summoned the clean the room and deliver filthy clothing to the laundry droids.

Does Hux have the right to know when Hux himself had betrayed Ren, had tried to kill Ren?

The Knights look at him oddly.

Finally, Ap-lak speaks. “Talk with him,” they say. “Treat him as an equal in this union.”

 _Because he is an equal_ , Ap-lak does not say.

Ren ducks his head and thinks of Hux.

He would talk to him. Soon.

But not this cycle.

Not the next.

*

Phasma does not say anything of the sudden appearance of his Knights. She does, however, watch them, her cold blue eyes lingering on their forms.

There is no desire in that gaze—Ren probably would have accepted desire.

No. Phasma looked at them like she was calculating something. He could not trust that what she was planning had the best interest for the Empire in mind. Not when he did not fully understand her.

It is right before a meeting that Phasma intercepts him, locking the door behind her in the otherwise empty conference room.

“Emperor,” she says, her chin tilted up. “I have a query.”

“What is it?” Ren asks.

“I understand that Governor Hux resides on Birren,” Phasma says slowly. “But will he be able to separate his duties for the gala on Naboo in two cycles?”

Ren hums. He had thought to take a Knight in Hux’s stead. But. _But_.

Perhaps it would be better if the man could make a public appearance at Ren’s side.

“I’ll speak with him. Tonight.”

Privately.

Phasma nods shallowly. Her eyes never leave Ren’s. “I have also found time to watch the wedding holofilm,” Phasma says. If possible, her eyes grow more cold. “Congratulations.”

Never has congratulations sounded more like a curse.

“Have you found yourself a partner for the gala, General?” Ren asks.

Phasma blinks. “No sir. I was planning on going alone.”

 _Ha_.

“I’ll assign a Knight as your partner,” Ren says airily. “They’re decent enough when it comes to dancing.”

It helps when one is a mind reader and knows just where their partner's foot will fall.

Phasma presses her lips together. Her brows twitch. Anger. She is so used to having her face hidden that she has not begun to realize how delightfully open her expressions could be. “Yes sir.”

“It’s been a good talk, Phasma. Glad we had it,” Ren says. He flicks his hand out and unlocks the door.

A stream of officers come stumbling in. One of them loses his hat in the sudden movement.

“What are you waiting for?” Ren says to those officers, amusing himself with how they run to their seats.

One officer starts up his preprepared speech, stuttering nervously. His hat is askew and he doesn’t even notice.

*

Ren meets his husband on Naboo.

Hux descends from his shuttle, already wearing the robe that Ren had selected and sent him. Sheer tulle covers his chest, with creeping vines embroidered in gold. The robe's skirts are pitch black and hold close to Hux's slim form.

"Your Imperial Majesty," Hux says in greeting, not once bowing his head. His collar is visible just beneath the fragile layer of his robe.

"Husband mine," Ren greets in turn. He offers his elbow and Hux takes it.

Ren's court greets his consort appropriately and then they are off, traveling through the palace's long halls with longer strides.

Hux is silent, his chin lifted high. Perhaps he will have something to say later, once this public farce is over.

Queen Cyclamen of Naboo greets them, drowning in her red robes. She is not even nine years old, far too young for all the responsibility up on her narrow shoulders. She bows when she sees them and her handmaidens do the same.

"Emperor Ren, Consort Hux, we welcome you," Cyclamen says.

There is a feast held just for them. A never-ending array of dishes hailing from all corners of the Galaxy.

Hux eats little more than cuts of fresh fruit.

There is dancing, after, and Ren pulls Hux amongst the crowd. He does not know the particular dance, but it is easy to reach out to those around them and learn just what the movements entail. Hux too is a quick study, those cold eyes staring somewhere past Ren's ear.

"Have you missed me?" Ren asks.

Hux ignores this inquiry. Instead he settles his gaze on a different form.

Phasma, arm in arm with one of Ren's Knights.

Ren can feel the _fear panic anxiety_ that races through Hux's veins.

"What," Hux says, voice thick, "is going on?"

Phasma. Phasma, whole and safe.

Phasma, alive.

Hux is shaking.

Ren ushers him through the crowds and out, onto a balcony. The night air is cold and biting, but Hux is not shivering from cold.

Hux lets go of Ren and draws in on himself, paling. "What the fuck?" Hux says, so very brittle. "How-- What...?" And then he finally settles on, "Why?"

"Because," Ren says simply. "I wanted her back. I wanted her to be my General."

Hux blinks rapidly, shakes his head. "I can't believe you," he says, voice thick. He is nearly crying.

Ren watches him. Tilts his head.

Darkness swirls around Hux, so thick that it borders on choking. If he could use the Force, he would be a true menace, a force to be unleashed upon the unrepentant Galaxy.

How lovely that image would be.

But is not at all realistic.

"You're selfish," Hux tells him, prodding his chest with a pointy finger. "Unbelievable. You could have brought her back all this time?" His voice breaks just when the first tear escapes his eye.

Loneliness. Grief. Fear.

Such heavy things.

Ren wipes away Hux's tears with his thumbs. "Don't cry," Ren tells him, crowding into Hux's space.

Hux bares his teeth in a snarl, still that rabid cur that Snoke had failed to tame.

Ren takes him by his collar, hand settled around the kyber leash. "You'll behave, won't you?"

Hux blinks rapidly, his eyes the size of moons. His busy mind goes blank. But at least his eyes are no longer watering, right?

"Good boy," Ren tells him, wrapping the thread around his finger.

Only once Hux composes himself does Ren lead him back to the ballroom, sweeping him into the throngs of dancing bodies, swishing silks, clacking heels. Ren dances with him for as long as music still plays.

Never once does he let him go.

He keeps him close in the beautiful palace of Naboo.

And when the gala draws to an end, Ren escorts Hux to his shuttle and sees him returned to his lonely little manor on Birren.

All in all, a successful night.

*

Ren calls a meeting of the Supreme Council soon after the gala on Naboo. Some of the officials are there in person, like his more important Generals. Others are there in a holo, like Hux.

"I want Naboo," Ren says to start the meeting.

Immediately he is met with a thought from Phasma.

 _What a child_ , she thinks derisively.

Ren looks in her direction and bares his teeth in the facsimile of a smile. "General Phasma, do you have any faults with this?"

Phasma's mouth twitches. "No, Emperor Ren," she says. "Merely, how feasible would this be? Naboo has its Queen."

"Queen Cyclamen is a child," Ren says idly. "It would only relieve her to be stripped of such a burden."

Phasma does not back down. She turns her gaze to the flickering blue form of Hux, resplendent in a white robe, gloved hands folded in front of him, his head slightly bowed. "Governor Hux," Phasma says. "As Consort to the Emperor, what do you think about this proposal?”

Hux blinks, as if taken aback that he is being addressed at all. "If it pleases Emperor Ren, then it is acceptable,” he says mildly.

Ren smiles and then pushes a thought to him: _good boy_.

Hux blinks again, before dropping his gaze.

The Council talks of other things for the scheduled hour, but not once does Hux speak up to add his own opinion.

*

Phasma approaches him in his throne room later that cycle. She bows, slightly, a hand upon her chest. "Your Imperial Majesty," she says, though she doesn't mean it. "I have a request."

Ren tilts his head. "What is it?"

Phasma takes a breath. "I would like to go to Birren."

“And why would that be?" Ren smiles. He knows. He knows why. But he wants Phasma to say it.

"Because," Phasma says, voice steady and hard and angry. " _Because_ the Hux I saw in the holoconference is not the Hux that I know."

“You’ve been gone a while,” Ren says, resting his chin upon his hand. “Perhaps he has changed in that time.”

Phasma straightens further, her spine made of durasteel. “Sir,” she says, jaw set. “There is something deeply wrong with Hux. You must have been the one to push him to this.”

Ren does not think, he reaches out and chokes her.

“Careful, General,” Ren says slowly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Phasma projects hatred at him, her eyes like ice. When he lets go, she does not flinch. She brushes herself off. “You know,” Phasma says, her voice raw and angry. “You know about his father.”

Ah. That.

Brendol Hux had been disgusting. And now he was dead.

“What about him?” Ren says.

Phasma’s nostrils flare. “You will not become him,” she says. “I won’t let you.”

She thinks of desert sands, of golden beetles. Spears. Violence. Living itself as an act of violence.

“And how do you suppose you’ll stop me?” Ren asks, leaning forwards.

She’s a Force null. She wouldn’t even be alive if Ren had not brought her back. And how ungrateful she is.

“Does Hux know that you’ve slept with those Knights of yours?” Phasma says, unimpressed. “I don’t think that he would be so accepting of such a thing.”

Ren crosses his arms over his chest. “I believe that’s a matter to be discussed between me and my husband.”

Phasma grinds her teeth. “So,” she says, “you have not told him yet.” She is disappointed, surprisingly, and angry. Most of all, there is a strange melancholy that surrounds her. “If you would excuse me, Emperor.”

Ren dismisses her with a wave of his hand.

And then, once she is gone, he requests a holocall with Hux.

Ren is answered quickly enough by Hux, still in that same white robe. He looks a little harried, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

“Emperor Ren,” Hux says in greeting.

What he does not say is: _what the kriff do you want?_

“Hux, good. Do you have time to talk?” Ren says.

Hux looks at him strangely and then sits somewhere, smoothing the skirts of his robe. “What is it your Imperial Majesty requires?” he says.

“I’ve slept with all my my Knights,” Ren says. “Both long before our marriage and once after.”

He waits and watches for a reaction.

There is not much of one.

Hux frowns, eyes flickering away, and then he nods. A strand of his hair falls from his careful quiff and he does not bother to fix this. “And…?” Hux says.

He does not seem surprised or displeased.

“Do I have your permission to continue sleeping with them?” Ren asks.

There are relationships like this, he knows. Open relationships. He would have pegged Hux as a jealous type. Perhaps not then.

Hux sneers something fierce. “Does it truly matter what I have to say?” he says.

Observation: he is angry, seething. His hands are balled at his sides, nails biting into flesh.

But he does not say what he is thinking.

Ren tilts his head. “Of course,” he says slowly. They are married now, bonded together in this way. “You should share what you think with me.”

Heat rushes to Hux’s face. The sneer falls. “Are you truly going to say this now? Truly?” He buries his face in his hands, nimble fingers digging into the once neat mass of his hair.

He despairs.

Why?

Ren needs to know more.

“Shall I come visit you?” Ren asks him. He could bestow a gift upon him, something that would cheer Hux up. Something that he would want.

…what would he want that he does not have? That he would not be capable of getting for himself?

(Well, other than the throne. That was out of question.)

Hux’s nostrils flare. “What do you want to do, Emperor Ren?” he says.

(A gift. Ren had made him a gift. Had not had the chance to send it to Birren.)

Ren pauses. “Alright,” he says and cuts the holocall short.

*

Ren goes to the fabrications department to retrieve a project he had been working on. He pockets the smooth velvet box and goes once again to the Silencer.

It is a gift that surely Hux will enjoy.

He does not tell anyone where he is going. He does not have to.

He is Emperor of the Galaxy. No one can tell him what not to do.

Ren goes to Birren, to the small, rainy planet Leia Organa had once rejected. But Birren is his own now. And so is Hux. He had not rejected either.

He is welcomed to Hux’s manor by one of the droids that run the place. Already, night is creeping around the planet. The moon hangs low in the sky, stars glittering brightly.

He has missed Hux’s presence. He will not tell Hux this.

“Bring me to Hux,” he tells the droid.

The droid is a tall, slender thing, made of burnished silver and faceless. It bows deeply and says, “My pleasure, Emperor Ren.”

He is led down winding, grey halls all the way to the bedroom.

The droid knocks before throwing open the door. “Governor Hux,” the droid says. “The Emperor has seen fit to visit you.”

Hux does not startle. He merely looks up and nods, seated on the far edge of the oversized bed. He wears black robes now, robes that do not look familiar to Ren. But he looks so lovely.

The droid leaves them, shutting the door behind itself.

“Emperor,” Hux says, finally, in greeting. There is a datapad in his hands. “I thought you wouldn’t visit.”

Ren flicks it aside with the Force, setting it down on the bedside table. “Hux,” Ren says. He approaches slowly, boots sinking into the carpeted floor. He ignores the last statement. “How are you?”

Hux blinks slowly. Tilts his head. Huffs. “As well as one can expect.”

That is a nonanswer. Ren lets it go for now.

Ren sits down beside him and takes in his image. Hux’s hair is free of the usual wax he combed into it and slightly damp. And, now that he is looking, he sees that Hux’s undereye circles have diminished.

“You look well,” Ren says.

Hux inclines his head. With the movement, Ren catches a glimpse of the collar beneath his clothing.

Well. It isn’t like Hux could remove it on his own.

He would need a Force user for that.

(And Ren had killed every last one of them that clung to the Light. Burnt their bodies. Bled and broken their kyber crystals. All that remained were his Knights. His. And his Knights would not betray him.)

Ren sets aside his gift for Hux. They wouldn’t need it. Not yet.

“Have you missed me?” Ren asks. He reaches out and wraps his hand around Hux’s thigh.

Hux snorts. “It hasn’t been that long, surely,” he says, voice strangely breathy. His cheeks have grown red.

He does not appear angry. This is enough for Ren.

“Long enough.” Ren cups Hux’s jaw, thumb smoothing across Hux’s cheek. He leans in and kisses him. Hux gives, goes slack, his eyes sliding shut. He tastes of tarine, bitter and oversteeped.

Ren breaks the kiss, running his hands over Hux’s robe. “Where did you get this?”

Hux’s breath is hot against his face. “I received several parcels,” he says. “From the old Birren estate. It seems that Lady Carise Sindian and I were of the same stock.”

Tall. Slender. Vicious.

“Strip,” Ren tells him, letting go of the fine fabric.

Hux does so in a mechanical manner. Perhaps someday he will realize how to make the movements alluring. But for now his own charm is enough. He begins to fold the robes but Ren grows impatient.

He takes the robes and lets them crumple to the floor.

“Regulation briefs?” Ren says and tries hard to not be disappointed.

Hux glares at him. “They are suitable for their purpose.”

Ren snaps the elastic band. Suitable, yes.

“Boring.”

Hux wriggles out of the briefs and glances at the robes, left forgotten. He follows Ren’s lead, letting the briefs fall too. And then he sits there. Nude. Hair rising with the chill.

“On your hands and knees,” Ren says.

Hux hesitates only slightly before complying. Ren runs his hands down the length of Hux’s spine, massaging him where he is stiff. And he is stiff, so stiff. Like he has not left the Finalizer and the hours and hours of work behind years ago.

“I’ll make this good for you,” Ren says, once Hux has gone pliant.

He pulls a bottle of lube from his pocket and pours out a generous amount. He circles Hux’s hole, smearing hand-warmed lubricant wherever he touches.

Hux’s breath stutters when Ren’s finger first penetrates him and then wiggles his skinny ass welcomingly.

“Tell me,” Ren says, brushing against Hux’s prostate. “Did you miss me?”

Hux exhales sharply, barely swallowing a moan. “You have to ask?” he says, but there is no heat to what would have normally been an acidic sentence. Hux meets the shallow thrusts of his finger.

Ren chuckles. He withdraws his hand, leaving Hux keening.

“Yes,” Hux says, finally, his voice lurching dangerously. Like he will break. “Yes.”

“There,” Ren says, entering Hux once more. He flexes his finger, back and forth. “Was that so hard?”

Perhaps that’s all it really takes. A kind hand to tame the cur.

Hux comes with a stuttered gasp, all of him trembling. Ren waits until he finishes before withdrawing his hand. He helps Hux lay across the bed, limp and pliant.

Ren pads to the fresher, taking a washcloth and wetting it. He cleans Hux perfunctorily while the man is still gathering his breath and his wit.

“I have a gift for you,” Ren says. “To make up for the hurt I’ve caused you.”

And this catches Hux’s attention. “Hm?”

Ren settles himself across the bed and pulls his husband over, so that Hux might rest on top of him. Hux is a slight weight. Like he isn’t there at all. Ren floats the velvet box over and settles it into Hux’s pale hands.

“Open it,” Ren says and ducks his head to breathe in the scent of Hux. Sea salt. Tarine. That shampoo and conditioner set he favors.

And so Hux opens the box.

He does not respond in words.

Inside the box is a plug. Ren had made it himself, to his own specifications. It is made of a metal alloy Ren selected for its weight. At its base is kyber, sparkling red, pink, yellow, blue, orange. The plug itself is not as thick as he is. But it’s thick enough.

“Do you like it?” Ren asks. “I made it just for you.”

Hux picks it up and tilts it, staring listlessly at the kyber.

“This way,” Ren says, whispering into Hux’s ear, “you can prepare yourself for me. When I come to visit you.”

In his arms, Hux shivers.

*

Would Hux be considered a figure-head?

Perhaps.

In this Empire, Ren’s consort, the Governor of Birren, did not have much of a political pull. Hux sent daily reports, a list of decisions he has made. Ren approves some of them, if only to be kind.

Other than that, Hux has always sent questions.

What should be done? How should something be acquired?

Asking what Ren wants, really, is the underlying question of every thing that Hux sends.

Lately though, it seems that Hux has grown bored of this farce.

His daily report plays less into this game. Now it is a mere bulleted list of his day, asking for a decision on every aspect.

Every dreadful aspect.

It’s tedious work, but Ren fulfills it. He should have probably expected this sort of minor rebellion. But at least it isn’t a knife at his back.

His Empire settles after they take Naboo as capital.

Ren takes residence on the palace there. Nights are peaceful, with the sky full of stars. From here, he can still see the streaks of light from Starkiller. Ren smiles at that image.

Starkiller had been beautiful, like anything Hux could produce.

In the palace, Ren’s Knights stalked. They took the place of Snoke’s Praetorian Guards, but they, at least, were loyal.

They knew who they belonged to, even if not carnally.

The Galaxy is at his heel. He has finished what his grandfather started.

…why is this not enough?

Why is there still an emptiness echoing within his chest?

Ren summons his datapad to him. And then waits. What should he say?

>> U busy?

 _Eloquent_.

<< What do you require, Your Imperial Majesty?

Hux had replied quickly. Like he had been waiting for such a message.

>> Up 4 a holocall?

<< Yes, Your Imperial Majesty.

Ren calls him and, a beat after, Hux answers.

He wears a white robe, his hands folded in front of him. His hair is loose, framing his face pleasantly. “What does Your Imperial Majesty require?” Hux asks.

Ren hums. What indeed?

“How’s Birren?” Ren asks.

Hux blinks. “Birren is managed as to your orders.”

What a boring answer.

“Any new developments?” Ren asks.

“It… is raining currently,” Hux answers. “Is there anything else you require, Emperor Ren?”

“I just wanted to talk,” Ren says, growing frustrated. He had called to entertain himself. Hux is not being too entertaining. Hah. Probably wanted to withhold such a pleasure from Ren.

Hux hums a lonesome note. His eyes are half-lidded.

“Would you like to come to Naboo?” Ren asks.

Hux had never stayed planetbound for long periods of time until now. Perhaps Birren was as boring as Ren would have expected.

“Would Your Imperial Majesty wish for me to visit?” Hux asks.

Alright. Two can play this game.

Ren smiles. “Yes. Your Emperor would enjoy an audience with you.”

Hux nods. “Very well. When should I request a shuttle to take me to your palace, Your Imperial Majesty?”

Perhaps Hux was eager for this too. Perhaps he grew lonely with only droids for company.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

“It’s at your convenience, Governor,” Ren says.

It is mere hours later that he is notified of Hux’s arrival on Naboo.

Ren greets him after he departs from his shuttle, all but sweeping Hux into his arms. Hux wears the same white robes he had in the holocall; he had likely gone straight to the shuttle after the call ended.

This he did not quite expect.

This, he found, pleased him.

Ren nestles his face in the crook of Hux’s neck. He smells, pleasantly, of rain, of earthly musk.

Hux is still while Ren reacquaints himself with the physicality of the other man’s body. It has been too long, Ren realizes. Far too long. He can feel the jut of Hux’s ribs beneath the bodice of his robes.

He had thought that Hux was the weak one in this marriage. It is him who is weak, who hungers for a kind touch.

Ren blinks.

He wants Hux to stay here on Naboo. He wants Hux to share his bed, to share in the spoils of his Empire.

“Are you hungry, Hux?” Ren asks.

Hux tilts his head. The collar catches the light overhead. “Are you hungry, Emperor Ren?” he asks.

This is not an answer.

Ren takes Hux to his quarters and has one of his Knights bring them a platter of fruits coated in a thin layer of honey and a pot of tarine tea, steeped to bitterness, the way Hux preferred it.

Hux sinks into the seat he is given and goes still.

Ren goes so far as to pour a generous cup for Hux and set it before the man, but the man does not move. Ren quirks a brow.

Slowly, while watching Hux, he takes a slice of pear for himself.

After a moment, Hux does the same

Curious.

But Ren does not put this type of sullen behavior past Hux.

Instead, Ren allows himself to sample a wide variety of fruit and watches as Hux does the same. He pours himself a small cup of tarine and takes shallow, quick sips, wincing at the bitter taste of tea. Hux then does the same, though he never once winces.

What does he gain from this game? Ren wonders idly.

It is probably all for his sense of pride.

Ren snorts and Hux watches him carefully. Analyzing him. And then Hux puts down the cup of tea.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Hux says. “Is there something you require?”

“No,” Ren says. What could he require? He has everything he could ever want. Ren rests his cheek against his fist.

Hux shifts in the chair, lowing his gaze. “I…” he says and then trails off. “I was under the assumption that you summoned me for copulation.”

This catches Ren’s attention.

“Oh?” is all that Ren says.

A fierce flush rises to Hux’s face. Even the tips of his ears are red. “I have prepared myself, Your Imperial Majesty,” he says.

Ren wants to see how far this blush extends. So he rises from his chair, the platter of fruits and cups of tea so swiftly forgotten.

He kisses Hux and is met with no resistance. Hux tastes of honey, of tarine, so bittersweet. Ren cups the other man’s neck, finger feeling Hux’s hummingbird pulse.

Hux is warm and real and there, right within his grasp. What more could he have wanted?

Ren takes Hux to bed and rids him of those white robes. He laughs when he sees the plug, tapping the kyber base none too gently. “You did prepare for me,” he says fondly.

Hux huffs. “I would not lie to you, Emperor Ren.”

Ren removes the plug, twisting it slowly, before placing it into his bedside sanitizer. He does not strip himself, merely pulling free his cock from his pants.

“Do you want this?” Ren asks Hux, stroking the length of his cock.

Hux’s eyes are half-lidded. His blush goes down to his chest. “Y-yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty,” Hux says this time.

Ren gives his thigh a swat before replacing the plug with his cock. “Good boy,” he says and leans down to envelop Hux in a kiss.

*

In the morning Ren has a visitor.

Someone outside of his quarters continues to request entry.

Ren groans and rolls out of bed. He runs a hand through his hair and stares at Hux.

It’s like Hux has no troubles in this world. He is curled up beneath the blankets, not at all bothered by the incessant ringing.

Ren dresses himself in last night’s clothing and plods over to his door, opening it with vehemence. “What?” he growls.

It is Phasma at his door, disturbing him so early. She glowers. “Where is Hux?” she asks.

“He’s sleeping,” Ren says.

Her brows raise. “Sleeping? At this hour. Do you really expect me to believe that?”

Ren steps aside with a smile. “Be my guest.”

Phasma enters with some hesitance, pushing past him and the living quarters, to the sleeping quarters, her hand resting against her side. It is quite obvious she has a blaster, but, well, perhaps he can be merciful and pretend not to notice it.

Phasma stops short at the foot of their bed, taking in the sleeping form of Hux, the discarded robes and underthings.

Then, slowly, Phasma turns to him, rage written onto her features.

“What have you done?” she asks, voice scarcely above a whisper.

“We’re married,” Ren says slowly. “What do you think?”

Hux stirs, just a little, murmuring something incoherent. He is dangerously close to waking.

Ren takes Phasma by her wrist and guides her out of the sleeping quarters. “Quiet,” Ren says. “He’s had a busy night.”

“You’re disgusting,” Phasma says flatly.

Ren smiles, baring all of his teeth. “I believe you are forgetting my title.”

“My mistake. You’re disgusting, _Emperor Ren_ ,” Phasma says. Her heart is racing. Uncomfortable. “Did he even agree to all of this?”

 _The marriage, the collar, the governorship_ , she thinks.

“He was willing,” Ren says and muses of last night’s events. The image of Hux on his back. Charming, even.

Phasma sneers at him and thinks much less flattering things.

Evidently there is enough of a commotion for Hux to have woken up. He joins them in his dressing gown, fluffy slippers on his feet. His hair is everywhere, untamed by pomade.

“Phasma?” Hux says.

Phasma goes to his side and looks him over, before settling her gaze on his throat, where the collar was visible. “What is that?” she asks, jabbing the kyber crystal at its center.

Hux lifts a hand to it and touches it carefully. His eyes flicker over to Ren.

“Emperor Ren has made a collar and cuffs for me,” Hux says, after a while.

“Did you want to be collared?” Phasma asks.

Hux’s gaze flickers to Ren. “If… it pleased His Imperial Majesty,” he says, sounding anything but like himself.

A chill rushes up Ren’s spine. There… is something not right with Hux.

Phasma moves before Ren can stop her, pulling out a blaster and shooting twice.

Instinctively, Ren holds up a hand.

But the blaster bolt does not stop.

It _melts_ and scalds him, burning through his clothing, his skin. He falls to the ground in a heap, too shocked to even scream.

“Come on,” Phasma says, and grabs a hold of a confused Hux. She runs and he follows.

Ren gathers himself and stands after some time has passed. All of him is radiating with pain.

He had never been shot like that before, not even when Chewbacca’s bowcaster tore a hole in his side. What the _kriff_ was that?

Ap-lak enters Ren’s room, looking harried. “Emperor,” the say, stretching out a hand.

Ren bats them away. “General Phasma is a traitor,” he says with a snarl. “She’s kidnapped Hux.”

“You’ve been shot,” Ap-lak says, very slowly.

“Hux—”

“The other Knights are after them,” Ap-lak says. They put a hand on Ren’s uninjured shoulder. “I am summoning meddroids.”

“No droids,” Ren barks, but Ap-lak ignores him.

Droids come anyway and cut his clothes from his body. He is swathed in bacta bandages, the droids whistling worryingly to one another.

“She used a slugthrower,” Ap-lak says mildly.

“Where did she get a knifing slugthrower?”

Those were ancient things, their projectiles hard to come by. They went for handsome prices in certain markets.

Ren is shaking when he is allowed to redress himself, as droids collect the scraps of his former clothing. He puts on thick layers, blasterproof layers.

How well would they hold up against a slugthrower? He thinks with a certain vehemence.

Phasma and Hux are marched into the room, surrounded on all sides by the Knights.

But then the Knights do a curious thing. They disperse, their postures relaxed.

Ushar takes a hold of Hux’s collar and draws him close by his leash. Hux does not fight her.

“Emperor Ren,” Ushar says. “You said that your Hux was a Force null.”

Ren wants to reach out, to pull Hux to him, to promise Hux that everything will be okay, to promise Hux Phasma’s swift and silent execution.

But Ushar continues. “You have poisoned this man.” She lets go of the leash.

Hux, slowly, grasps part of the kyber thread and winds it around his index finger, not meeting anyone’s gaze. He remains silent.

“Kyber poisoning,” Ren says quietly.

“You’re familiar with the term?” Ap-lak says, sounding surprised.

There was only a slim chance of kyber poisoning from such a minuscule amount of kyber. But Hux would never be away from his collar, his cuffs, and now his plug.

Hux had suffered kyber poisoning once before, when the construction on Starkiller was underway. But that had been from a planet’s worth of kyber. Not this. Not these tokens of their marriage.

Ren stares at the man.

Hux lifts his chin and stares back instinctively, but his gaze is so vacant.

This frightens him.

“I told you,” Phasma says, her voice cold as space itself. “You’ve broken him.”

The Knights surround Hux slowly. He does not seem to notice it, but he does startle when Trudgen places her hands on his collar.

“What are you doing?” Hux asks, his brows furrowing.

“Ridding you of the source of the poison,” Trudgen answers.

(There were no more Force-users trained in the Light side of the Force. But there were his Knights, steeped in Dark.)

Trudgen peels away the collar first, then the cuffs, and tosses the mangled pieces of Sith metallurgy onto the floor. A mousedroid approaches and attempts to clean this.

“What have you done?” Hux asks, very quietly. “Emperor Ren will—”

There is hurt shining in Phasma’s eyes, and anger. “It was hurting you,” Phasma says.

Hux looks to Ren. “Your Imperial Majesty,” he starts to say. And then he stops. He frowns. “I apologize for not taking better care of your gifts.”

Ren recoils as if slapped. “No,” he says, voice wavering. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

Hux blinks rapidly but says nothing.

Phasma watches everything, a frown stuck on her face.

“What do I do, your Imperial Majesty?” Hux asks, his voice raw. He is grieving. He is grieving the things that had been destroying his mind. He mourns the loss of Ren’s creations, those marks of his ownership.

“Hux…” Ren says. And then he falters.

Everyone is looking at him.

“Get some rest, Hux.”

Hux nods and slowly, very slowly, returns to the bed he shared with Ren.

*

Ren’s heart races in his chest hours later. He knows what he has to do, but he does not know if he has the strength to do it. The other Knights know too and watch, like statues in the night.

He waits until Phasma nods off, curled on one end of an ice blue couch, before he approaches Hux.

Hux perks up once awoken, his eyes shining brightly. “Your Imperial Majesty,” he says, voice scarcely above a whisper. His hair is messy, sticking up in tufts.

He can only hope that Hux will forgive him. Eventually.

(He can only hope that Hux will find himself. Eventually. Return to that quick witted, sharp tongued man Ren had met ten long years ago.)

Ren kneels at Hux’s side and pulls a datapad out. He has already signed and initialed his half of the divorce documents and provided them with his thumbprint.

Hux attempts to slide down onto his knees, onto the floor, but Ren stops him.

“Hux,” he says. “Can you sign and initial these documents?”

Hux tilts his head, a vacant smile upon his lips. “If it pleases your Imperial Majesty,” he says and takes the datapad into his hands. He follows each prompt on the screen and finalizes their divorce readily enough.

“Thank you,” Ren says, taking the datapad back.

"You're welcome, your Imperial Majesty," Hux says.

How long had Hux been sick? Ren finds himself wondering, holding the datapad like one might hold a child. He should have noticed. He should have seen the changes.

(But he pushed Hux away, onto a different planet and into a manor solely occupied by droids.)

(But he had made the collar and cuffs with his own hands, as symbol of his dominion over Hux. He had done this. He had done _this_ to Hux, whose head is lost somewhere in the clouds. He is a pale, thin creature, now poisoned to suggestibility.)

A shiver creeps up Ren's spine.

They had had sex. Multiple times.

Had Hux wanted any of that? Had Hux been capable of saying yes?

Ren looks at his hands, calloused, with those small scars that come so often to those who use lightsabers. He hates all that he sees.

“What will you do now?” Cardo asks him.

Ren shakes his head. He does not know.

*

*

*


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it only took me a month!
> 
> warnings for: vomiting, kyber poisoning, power imbalance
> 
> a note--I attempted to research kyber poisoning before writing this fic, but I really could not find much. So, I came up with something fun (for me, and probably not Hux)

Hux wakes up, his heart hammering in his chest. He is drowning in bedsheets and sweat. He spills onto the floor and vomits. His bile is clear, save for the hint of iridescence. Kyber.

He leans back and looks out of the viewport.

He’s planetbound. That makes sense, yes. He does… remember a planet. The sun is setting, lighting up the room in orange. Tall, crystalline buildings jut into the sky.

Something isn’t adding up.

Hux gathers his legs beneath him and shuffles out onto the balcony, holding his black robe shut with a hand. The evening breeze is sweet, almost perfumed.

There is a fountain at the center of the balcony, water bubbling from it. He checks. Yes, water.

This is not Arkanis.

Hux shudders and returns to his apartments. He searches for his datapads but finds none. He looks for a com after. Still none. This isn’t the Finalizer, where he always had technology at his fingertips. Here, he is evidently far less important.

…this does not narrow down the possibilities.

“Wonderful,” Hux says sharply. Just what he needs.

No mousedroid comes. He has no way to call one anyway.

*

He sleeps after. He thinks he sleeps for a long time. His limps are cold, almost numb. There is a headache building.

He rolls over in bed, pulls the sheets over his head.

There is a strange taste to his mouth.

*

Hux sits up. He’s late for Alpha shift! He hastily makes the bed (corners tucked in sharply, must never forget to tuck in the corners) and then all but dashes to the fresher.

He freezes there and then and takes in the state of the fresher.

It is bigger than any room has right to be. There is an actual _bathtub_ and, further, no ration on the water.

Hux is not on the Finalizer. Hux is not on any Stardestroyer. Hux is very far away from anything he could call home.

He falls to his knees and vomits. (This time, he manages to reach the toilet bowl at least.) His vomit is no less iridescent. Perhaps now it is more colorful, tinged shades of blue and green and red.

He is planetbound, he remembers. Why had he forgotten?

“What the kriff,” Hux huffs, “is happening to me?”

When he meets his reflection in the mirror, he’s greeted by a stranger. His hair is longer than he’s ever allowed it to grow, reaching past his chin. There is a strange gleam to his eyes, one that he does not recognize.

“What the kriff?” Hux repeats to himself, touching his (shaven, smooth) cheek carefully.

Conclusion: this must be Kylo fucking Ren’s fault.

His memories are hazy, fuzzy at their edges.

(Yes, he is reliving the kriffing nightmare that is the aftermath of kyber poisoning.)

(Yes, it must be Kylo Ren’s fault. Everything is always Kylo Ren’s fault.)

Hux dresses himself clumsily. His limbs are not performing at peak capacity. They’re too slow. Delayed.

He is not pleased with the clothes he finds. He looks like a misplaced cadet. But they are comfortable at least. Even the boots are meant for the younger cadets, with zippers at the sides to give the cadet an option if bootjacks still gave them trouble.

Once he has hobbled into both shoes, he hobbles further around the apartment until he finds the door out, into the hallway.

Hux freezes where he stands. The hallways are more platform than anything else. There are so many trees off to the horizon, branches thick with green leaves and curling. Transport ships buzz around the sky. There are no safety barriers.

This is not a Stardestroyer, he thinks again.

He stays very still, then sways, bile spilling from his mouth.

“Hux?” says a ghost.

Phasma leans over him, dressed in the stripes of a general. Her hair is swept away from her face, held there by First Order standard pomade. There is a large scar on her face, like she had been burnt.

“Phasma…?” Hux says, brows furrowed. His hand is glowing green, hot where the bile spills between his fingers. “How are you still alive?”

He feels sluggish, like he’s still half asleep. He remembers that awful day that began on the Supremacy. He remembers the thorn and broken throne room. He remembers hands—around his throat, throwing him into a wall.

This is a dream, he decides.

Phasma _had_ died.

Hadn’t she?

Phasma’s throat bobs. Her eyes are wide as moons. “It’s a long story,” she says.

(Perhaps it is Hux who has died.)

“I suspect we have time,” says Hux. His knees ache where they rest against the granite floor.

Phasma produces a handkerchief from one of her pockets and wipes Hux’s face and hands for him, in a strange and un-Phasma-like behavior. Her movements are robotic, like they had been programed into her brain. That is the only explanation for this. “Here,” Phasma says, hauling him back onto his feet.

She brings him back to his rooms. She produces a lot of sub-vocalizations, her jaw and throat moving in minuscular ways. Perhaps this is why she wore a mask.

“Where is your mask, Phas?” Hux asks. “Why are you a General?”

What he does not say is this: _if you are a General, then what am I?_

“A lot has happened,” Phasma says carefully. “What do you remember last?”

Hux frowns. A headache builds between his brows, needle sharp. What does he remember last?

“Ren and I married,” he says eventually.

Phasma nods. Her brows are pinched. “Okay,” she says.

He knows it’s not okay, clearly. He’s missing something. He’s missing a lot. How long had he not been himself? How foolish had he become with his kyber-addled brain?

“Care to fill me in on the blanks?” Hux asks slowly.

Phasma sits down at a pathetically small coffee table and urges Hux to sit as well. She pulls out her datapad, closing half a dozen messages.“Let me order some tea,” she says. “We’ll be here for a while.”

It is unlike Phasma to treat him so carefully. Gently.

Like he is something precious. Like she cares for him.

“Phasma,” Hux says slowly. “What’s happened?” He can taste bile at the back of his throat, and something more. Mint. Electricity. The ozone.

He shuts his eyes.

Kyber poisoning. It had to have been severe kyber poisoning.

*

When he had overseen the construction of Starkiller, it was still known as Illum. Its innards were kyber, raw and precious. Hux spent countless hours on the planet with his crew, supervising Starkiller’s construction.

He wanted to have a hands on approach to what would be his greatest creation yet. He wanted to feel the weight of those long cycles when the New Republic was destroyed, that it was by his hand.

But long hours with kyber molds the mind. It makes one suggestible. It makes one at the will of the nearest Force user.

Snoke thought of him as a rabid dog, angry and frothing at the mouth. And so he became a rabid dog, controlled by anger and hate for long hours of the cycle. Much like Kylo Ren.

Only when he was cycled off of Starkiller did he even begin to realize what had occurred. He’d spat up kyber for weeks after, enough to build himself a whole karking lightsaber collection.

That was then.

This was now.

What did Kylo fucking Ren do with his broken mind?

*

This particular bout of kyber poisoning is worse than the last time. He loses days. Then hours. Then minutes. Eventually he stops vomiting liquid kyber, though the taste of mint and ozone lingers against the roof of his mouth.

When Hux is sure that he will not lose himself no longer, he decides it is time to make himself appear proper once again.

He summons a droid to cut his hair. This is easily done, now that he had acquired a datapad through Phasma, whose visits were constant things. He slicks his hair back with requested pomade and, when he looks at his reflection in the mirror, things begin to fall into place.

Hux dresses himself in the most formal clothes he can find, reminiscent of his old uniform, including the tall boots. He dabs cologne on his wrists, his throat, behind his ears—sea salt and sage—and shuts his eyes, simply allowing himself to enjoy the familiar scent. 

Phasma nods when she sees him. “General,” she says, though he is no longer one. “What now?”

“I’d like an audience with the Emperor,” Hux says slowly.

This, perhaps, is dangerous. But he must do this. He must.

“He’s called himself the Emperor of Forever,” Phasma drawls out, walking the long halls of the palace. It’s very empty, with a handful of droids in the corridors, bustling about with their duties.

“That seems pretentious,” Hux says.

“He’ll rule forever,” continues Phasma, rolling her eyes. “All of space and time is at his fingertips. He can break worlds. Unmake them. Remake them.”

Hux would scoff at that nonsense.

But. He has done worse. Ren had poisoned him. Made him love him. Hux doesn’t even remember most of those days. Just that cloying desperation within him to submit to Ren, to be his _very good boy_.

Hux shivers again.

Phasma leads him to the throne room, a great big, empty chamber. On either side of the throne stands a Knight. Hux has never known their names. It doesn’t matter, he supposes.

Not when he is here to see Ren.

And see him he does…

Kylo Ren was sprawled across his throne, but once his golden eyes fall upon Hux, he rises shakily to his feet. He reaches out but does not touch Hux. Does not move even one strand of Hux’s hair with the Force.

“Hux,” Ren says, so very intelligently. He doesn’t even blink.

A wave goes over Hux then. His knees buckle and he falls, head floating somewhere in the planet’s atmosphere. He wants nothing more than to press kisses to Ren’s scuffed up boots, to beg and plead for Ren to take him back. He _wants_ to submit, wants to give into Ren’s will.

_No. That isn’t right. That isn’t him._

“Hux,” Phasma says quietly. It does not escape him that there is a slugthrower clipped to Phasma’s belt, far older than she is.

Hux stands up and brushes wrinkles from his clothing.

Ren’s face contorts strangely. It would be remiss to call his golden eyes soft. But. “Are you well, Hux?” he asks.

Hux snorts. He cannot help himself. Is he well? Really? _Really?_

A smile grows across Ren’s face. “The kyber poisoning,” he says. “It—”

“I seem to have vomited it out of my system,” Hux says icily. He look at Phasma, who remains at his side, a hand upon the slugthrower at her hip. Then the Knights, who don’t have their weapons on them. Then Ren, still standing, his smile half-fallen from his face.

“Vomited,” Ren repeats. He pauses. Tilts his head. “Are you hungry?”

“He could eat,” says Phasma before Hux can even think.

It’s a turn of conversation that he had not expected.

Ren nods at his Knights. One, whose skin was green and scarred, nodded back and left the throne room. “What would you like to eat?” Ren asks. “Anything in the Galaxy. You’ll have it.”

Hux blinks slowly. This he had not expected either.

“Fish stew,” Hux finds himself saying.

When he was still a child, the kitchen women of the Academy would go early every day to visit Scaparus Port. They would come back with freshly caught fish, still stinking of the ocean. His mother’s stew was thick and hearty. She always liked it spicy, with plenty of red pepper paste, though not many others could stand the taste.

Ren nods again. “You’ll have it.”

*

Obviously the stew served is not exactly like his mother’s. His mother used cod. The Knights found one of Naboo’s Opee sea killers instead.

(Observation: he really is on _Naboo_. What the kriff happened to its child queen?)

The stew is thick and rich, though Hux wished for nothing more than familiar red pepper paste in the moment. The stew has notes of fragrant onion and garlic. Diced tomatoes, sliced peppers, and small chunks of root vegetables mingled along with the soft cuts of Opee sea killer. There are baskets of freshly baked bread across the table, fluffy rolls coated with seeds. The bread tears apart in his hands, flakey and soft, and so very warm.

It was close enough. It had to be close enough. Hux shuts his eyes as he eats.

When he opens his eyes, he sees Ren watching him.

Ren doesn’t even bother to hide his open interest. He rests his cheek upon a fist, golden eyes unblinking. He has long let his own stew grow cold.

Hux doesn’t not give him any satisfaction by emoting his enjoyment of the stew. He is still and silent. He had learned long ago how to mask his emotions.

It was a valuable lesson, one of the few lessons Brendol taught that had some worth.

When he finishes his bowl of stew, a droid offers him more.

Hux shakes his head. “No thank you,” he tells the droid.

It seems that everything in that room hinged entirely on him. When he says that he is done, other droids come to collect the soiled bowls and spoons. Even Ren allows his bowl to go back to the kitchens, still half full.

“Did you enjoy your meal?” asks Ren, his voice low like rumbling thunder.

Hux nods stiffly. “It was adequate,” he says.

At his side, Phasma’s lips twitch. She holds back a smile, but she cannot hold back the warmth from her eyes. She is amused, finally, at there being someone to challenge Ren.

(She is amused, finally, at witnessing the Hux she could remember.)

Ren nods, slowly, inclining his head. “Would you like anything else?” he asks.

 _Yes_ , Hux almost says. _My missing memories. The Galaxy. Your head upon a platter._

“No,” says Hux, hands upon the table. “Might I be excused, Emperor?”

Ren blinks. His face twists. “You don’t need to ask for permission,” he says, actually sounding _angry_. “You can do whatever you’d like, Hux.”

Hux nods. Does not allow himself to externalize how shaken he is. He pushes away from the table and walks off, only to be joined by Phasma.

“What do you want?” he asks her.

Phasma looks at him out of the corner of her eye. “Do you know the layout of the palace?” she asks.

The answer is no. They both know this.

“Would you take me to the gardens?” Hux asks.

Phasma nods. “Of course.”

*

He has never seen so much green before. He is fairly certain of that. Plants spiral up on white posts. Trees are heavy with leaves and fruits. There are great patches of flowers, as far as the eye can see.

Hux seats himself amongst these flowers.

(He does not flop over onto them and scream, however much he would like to do just that. He has dignity to preserve. He suspects he has not had his dignity in a long, long time.)

Phasma takes longer to fold herself up in an approximation of crossed legs.

“What happened to us, Phas?” Hux says aloud. He doesn’t really expect an answer.

“We died,” she says. She has the audacity to sound sad about it.

They died. They were brought back by Ren. Now what?

“Do you want to leave this Galaxy?” he asks.

Phasma blinks. She rubs a hand gingerly across her scar. “I’m not particularly attached to this one,” she says. “But I’m not fond of the monsters found beyond the Unknown Regions either.”

Hux snorts.

Typical.

“You know we must topple this Empire,” Hux says.

“You mean, transfer the crown to you,” Phasma says. There’s a ghost of a smile across her lips.

Hux plucks a millaflower from the ground. It’s soft and fragrant. He’s surprised Ren hasn’t razed the gardens to the ground and has allowed them to continue on. Pretty, but also so very useless. He didn’t think Ren favored pretty things, unless they brought some use with them.

Hux has always wanted the Galaxy. He has always dreamed of becoming the next Emperor. He has always planned for how to reform the Galaxy into something better—where children are not beaten by their fathers, where resources never were wasted, where everyone had enough to eat and a warm place to sleep at night.

“Do you think the Galaxy would still accept me?” Hux asks.

There is a matter of his wedding to Ren. It had been broadcast everywhere. Visions of him being collared. Cuffed. Images of him in white robes, lacking in any sort of padding.

How humiliating to lose control of one’s image.

(He… suspects he’s humiliated himself further. He lacks evidence of this, however.)

“The thoughts of others has never stopped you before,” Phasma says.

Hux hums. He plucks more millaflowers, twisting their stems together until he has made himself a crown.

“I’ll need my data pad and my tools,” he says, after a while. “I have an idea.”

Phasma nods. “You’ll have whatever you need.”

*

Hux’s quarters begin to look more like the inside of a fabrications chamber. Tools and materials are scattered on every surface. He has datapads, many of them, probably far more than he actually needs. Every request of his is granted, every wish fulfilled.

(How good it is to be treated this way. The way he deserves.)

(The sick part of him agrees and thinks that these treats will come with his obedience to Ren.)

(He does not allow himself to linger in these thoughts.)

Hux believes himself to have recovered from his brief and terrible illness and though he no longer vomits excess kyber from his system, the stray thoughts and urges still come upon him at the strangest of times.

Perhaps the sight and scent of Kylo fucking Ren makes it worse.

This is what he tells himself.

Hux builds a collar to specifications he’d made long ago. It’s a neat little device, one that would release ultrasonic pulses when wrapped around Ren’s throat to the tune of 100,000 cycles—perhaps more than what was necessary. But Hux must be prepared for all scenarios.

“What do you think the Knights will make of this?” Phasma asks. She holds the collar within her hands, a calloused finger tracing the cold metal.

“Kylo Ren is not fit to lead,” Hux says. “You know it. They know it. It’s a wonder that the whole Galaxy doesn’t speak of it openly. All he does is mope on that throne of his. The Knights must understand what has to be done.”

“But will his friends truly wish to see him abdicate the throne?” Phasma asks, a brow raised.

Hux snorts, takes the collar from her. It’s coded to his thumb prints and to his eye. It’s best to have all the insurance that he can. So that he might not be betrayed. So that only he might free Ren.

(One day, perhaps. He’s still thinking about it.)

“Do you think they enjoy making most of the decisions while Ren lazes about all day?” Hux asks.

“This underestimates how much I do in this Empire,” Phasma comments.

Hux shrugs. “Six of them, one of you.”

He wonders briefly what had happened to the older Ren, the original Ren. That man was a menace, all scars and burns and attitude. He was… nice enough, beneath the bravado.

(Briefly, a certain Lieutenant Hux had a dalliance with the original Ren. Ren was a kind lover, one that had ensured that Hux enjoyed the process. One who whispered filth and made his face hot. One that never harmed or hurt him. One that knew how to respect boundaries.)

All he knew is that the older Ren had died and that the younger, more impulsive Kylo Ren took his place.

“Perhaps they can select another Master of the Knights of Ren from amongst them,” Hux comments idly. In the First Order, no one would have hesitated. They would have gladly seen to Kylo Ren’s downfall in order to better their own position.

“No good,” says Phasma. She reclines carefully on the ice blue couch. “Ren says that they’re all equals—no Masters there.”

Hux snorts. How equal can one Knight be to an Emperor?

“Ridiculous,” is what Hux says eventually.

“Ridiculous,” Phasma echoes. “But it’s the truth.”

Hux shakes his head. Briefly, he thinks of making more Force suppression collars. He dismisses the thought. Even collaring Ren would be tricky.

He would need to isolate Kylo Ren. Need to betray him.

(Why the kriff does he feel bad? Ren had done the same to him! Ren had done worse!)

(What do the Knights of Ren think? They are complete mysteries to him, existing only in the periphery.)

“Buck up,” Phasma tells him. She hesitates. Touches his cheek. “Ren is soft for you. You’ll manage well, General.”

Hux rolls his eyes but does not correct her.

(More than anything in this world, he misses the comfort of his greatcoat.)

*

_Ren parts his legs with a rough, calloused hand. He whispers praise into the folds of Hux’s skin. “Good boy,” Ren says. “My sweet, darling boy. Tell me you want this.”_

_Hux’s chest heaves. “Yes,” he says. “Yes.”_

_There’s warm lubricant on Ren’s fingers. One finger inside. Then another, another, another, and then oh—_

_Ren’s fist is inside of him._

_“Careful, baby,” Ren tells him._

And then Hux is awake, body hot and trembling. He’s made a mess of his robe.

Hux breathes heavily and rises on shaking legs.

 _Good boy_ , the Ren from his dream had said sweetly.

Hux takes a very cold shower.

*

Would it be considered a ritual if the same thing happened over and over again?

First, Ren approached Hux and asked what Hux would like for dinner.

Next, Hux would come up with something from his childhood. Example: chermoula smothered salmon with a side of honey-glazed carrots and basmati rice.

Then, like magic, whatever Hux requests arrives at the table, pipping hot and delicious, if only slightly to the left of his mother’s old recipes.

Hux eats slowly and when he finishes, Ren looks at him like a dog looks at its master. Wide eyes, desperate for affection. If Ren had a tail, he would wag it.

“Did you enjoy your meal?” Ren asks.

“It was adequate,” Hux says.

This too is part of the ritual.

If Ren breaks it first, by losing interest in what Hux thought, there is no point to this grand meal.

If Hux breaks it first, there are two ways it can go.

Scenario 1:

_“It was terrible,” this Hux would say._

_Ren would rise to his feet, nostrils flaring. Then he would summon something to his hand. Hux hadn’t decided what. Either his lightsaber or the kyber collar._

_Either way, Hux’s life would be over._

Scenario 2:

_“It’s delicious,” this Hux would say._

_Ren’s face would soften. Perhaps the gold of his eyes would lose its ferocity for a moment. He would smile, nod, and then the game would be up. There would be no more Arkanian meals served for dinner in the palace of Naboo._

_And this Hux would regret his words for the rest of eternity because death was forbidden to him._

Ren tilts his head and nods slowly. There is a softness to his mouth, one that Hux does not want to acknowledge. “I am glad that it is adequate,” he says, which is quite strange.

The Knights look at one another.

Phasma looks at Hux.

There is a great deal of _looking_. For some reason it’s this that pisses Hux off.

But he is Hux. He does not scream and rage and destroy the things that stand before him. He is patient. He will wait.

“Might I be excused?” Hux asks.

There are still carrots on Ren’s plate, the honey thick and shiny against the ceramic.

Ren nods. “You don’t have to ask for permission, Hux,” he says.

Hux snorts, rolls his eyes. “Am I not still your spouse?” he asks. “There are certain things expected of spouses.”

Ren blinks rapidly. Whatever softness had blossomed across his face is lost. Quickly, he grows pale.

“I’ll go with you,” Phasma says quickly. “Come now. You wanted a tour of the library.”

*

A library had always seemed wasteful. All that space dedicated to flimsi. All that knowledge could be contained within a single datapad. It was an extravagance that was only allowed by the loathsome Republic.

But Kylo Ren has the blood of the Republic running in his veins.

The library was a legacy of ages past. Countless tomes are bound in leather older than he is.

Hux allows himself to look but not touch. He would rather not choke on all of the dust that rest on their surfaces.

“You and Ren are divorced,” Phasma tells him the second they are alone. “It’s official, though it hasn’t actually been shared to the Galaxy. You haven’t made an official appearance since the gala on Naboo. Some people think you’re dead.”

Hux sighs and ignores the fact that people believe him dead. Surely that would have been important information to possess earlier. “And I suppose we did not make separation agreements?” he says.

“I cannot confirm that,” says Phasma. “But it is unlikely.”

Hux sighs again. It seems that the stars do not shine on him. “I didn’t know,” he says. This is an oversight. He is so used to being the one who knows everything.

But he is weak.

He has been broken.

(He does not want to be broken again.)

Phasma blinks. Her brows are furrowed, her lips pinched. If she wants to say something, clearly she thinks better of it.

Instead, Phasma moves gingerly through the library.

The ceilings are tall, stretching up seemingly endlessly. They are painted with frescos of Queens from Naboo’s history. Hux’s eyes settle on the mournful face of Padmé Amidala.

_Let the past die. Kill it if you have to._

Ren was fond of that phrase. Perhaps too fond for comfort. If he cared to take heed of his own words, then he would have the paintings scrubbed over. To peel back the enamel white of so many painted faces. To cover it all with a coat of black.

Suddenly, he is dizzy.

Hux raises a hand to his temple. The library is swimming in black.

“Hux!” Phasma shouts.

But he is snuffed out, like a candle.

*

Hux wakes up slowly and then all at once.

He is lying down in his room, a meddroid supervising his vitals. It beeps with delight on confirmation of his consciousness.

The library. Phasma.

“How long was I asleep?” Hux demands.

The meddroid wheels about carefully. It beeps out in binary, _three cycles._

That is three cycles too long.

Hux’s head feels heavy. All his limbs feel heavy. His mouth is tacky and sweet. “Why did I lose consciousness?”

 _Inconclusive_ , says the droid. _Perhaps overexertion._

This is a common malady to the Huxes. It is common gossip among meddroids, though none would admit this willingly to you.

Slumped over on a chair is the inelegant form of Emperor Kylo Ren. He is deep asleep. He doesn’t even twitch. There are deep, dark circles beneath his eyes. His skin is waxen.

Hux frowns. Ren had been so silent that Hux had not noticed him at first.

“Just how long has Emperor Ren been here?” Hux asks the meddroid.

The meddroid confirms his suspicions. _Three cycles_ , it says in binary.

Hux frowns and, as always, his mind starts riffling through the possibilities.

1\. Ren, somehow, caused the malady and Hux’s unconsciousness.

Unlikely. Hux didn’t think the Force worked that way.

2\. Ren had something to request from Hux.

Somewhat more likely. However, Hux dismisses this quickly. Ren could have easily had a message sent once he was alerted of Hux’s regained consciousness.

3\. Ren was worried.

Hux dismisses this option without even stopping to consider it.

Kylo Ren could not truly and genuinely worry for Armitage Hux in this universe. It was not in their stars.

“That doesn’t look comfortable,” Hux remarks to the droid.

It beeps in sympathy. That is not what Hux expected.

“Shall I wake him?” Hux asks.

 _He has not slept long_ , says the droid.

Hux sighs. “Yes. But if he sees that I am awake, perhaps he can conclude his business and sleep on some vaguely horizontal surface.”

Outside of the MedBay, he does not say. But it is heavily implied.

Gingerly, the droid wheels itself to Emperor Ren’s side. It prods him with a spindly limb and lets out a string of beeps and boops.

Ren wakes up almost in a rage, jumping to his feet. He rubs a hand across his face. Then he sees Hux. Ren softens immediately and falls to his knees before the bed. He takes Hux’s hand between his own and brushes a kiss against Hux’s palm.

“R-ren,” Hux says, startled. He calms himself, lists off the parts of an Imperial Stardestroyer’s engine. “What exactly are you doing?”

Again, Ren looks at Hux as though he had hung all the stars in the sky.

Ren lets go, slowly, but the warmth of him lingers, nestled in Hux’s bones. He is… unsettled, to say the least.

“I must excuse myself, Governor,” Ren says, finally. “I’ll let Phasma in.”

Hux blinks and then blinks again. None of the questions that race within his head have answers.

Phasma joins him shortly, just as Ren had promised.

“I’m sorry,” Phasma tells Hux. She doesn’t look at him.

Once Hux had prided himself in knowing everything. More and more, Hux is surprised by just how little he knows.

“What happened?” Hux asks Phasma. “The droid tells me it thinks I was overworked, but we all know there is precious little work to be done by _me_.“

Phasma shakes her head. “It was awful,” she says, voice grave. “I thought you died.”

This answers absolutely nothing.

“Did I vomit?” Hux asks.

Phasma shakes her head again. She does nothing but shake her head.

“I am not some sort of delicate creature,” Hux says viciously. “My health has always been… frail. But do not consider me weaker for this. I am still capable—”

“I never said you weren’t capable,” Phasma comments. “Just…” She frowns, shakes her head. “I don’t know what will happen. To you. To me. To the Empire. I can’t even guess.”

Observation: Phasma, for once in her damned life, is afraid.

Hux does nothing.

He has never been one to comfort others or be comforted.

Hux does something.

He reaches out, places his hand on her shoulder. Squeezes. Drops his hand.

“Let’s collar him,” Hux says, if only to see that look fall away from Phasma’s face. If only to push away the thought of his own weakness.

“I’m with you, sir,” says Phasma, even though he is not a General, even though he will likely never be a General agin.

*

Perhaps he was kind, using the word ‘let’s’ as if Phasma would have any part in this.

No. This is something Hux must do alone.

(If it goes wrong, if he is killed once again, then at least Phasma would still live.)

(He does not tell Phasma of his fondness— no, his _appreciation_ of her company. Of their… friendship. That would be weak. And Hux is so very tired of being weak.)

Hux asks Ren to meet him in his quarters.

Ren arrives, his eyes wide as moons. “Hux,” he says. “What do you need?”

Hux is sitting on the ice blue couch, waiting, just waiting.

He does not expect his every wish to be fulfilled when Ren kneels before him, just a hairsbreadth away.

Hux’s breath hitches in his throat.

Ren sees this as a signal of sorts. He rests his forehead on Hux’s knee. “Tell me,” he says. “What have you called me here for?”

Hux collars him then.

Ren does not object or rage like he might have. Ren does not move.

(The monomolecular knife up Hux’s sleeve was a precautionary measure. He had hoped not to use it. Now that it is unnecessary, Hux does not know what to think.)

“Is this what you wanted?” Ren asks after an eternity. His voice is raw and weary, so much older than the man it belonged to. He looks up, his eyes still gold. Why are they still gold?

Hux is numb.

“You wanted the Galaxy,” Ren says. He doesn’t have to read Hux’s mind to know this. “You can have it.”

This should be everything Hux wants. The Resistance, crushed. Ren, collared. The Galaxy at his heel. This is everything Hux had dreamed about as a boy.

This is not enough.

“I want more,” Hux tells him.

He wants those missing months back. He wants to not live in fear of the consequences of his disobedience. He wants Phasma to stop looking at him so sadly. He wants to redo their lives, to make things go right.

Ren tilts his head. “How?” he asks.

Hux shakes his head. He does not know.

“I could have loved you,” Hux tells him, because he cannot stop.

When they had first met, Kylo Ren did not wear a mask. He was a young man, with large doe eyes and kissable lips. He was one of the few that existed outside of the hierarchy of the First Order. He also had a frightful temper and an enormous ego, both things that have (unfortunately) been classified as Hux’s preferences in a man.

Hux had never approached Ren in that way.

It has been seven long years since that faithful day.

Ren’s face is painfully open. It breaks. Even the gold of his eyes wavers. “Why?” he asks.

‘Why’ could query for many varying questions, such as: _Why would you love me? Why had you not told me sooner? Why tell me at all?_

Hux shrugs a single shoulder. “You should know,” Hux says cooly. “Perhaps if you had not collared me, we could have come to an understanding.”

Ren lowers his head once again, resting against the plush blue fabric of the couch. He does not speak. Perhaps he has nothing more to say.

*

Not long after, Hux dresses himself in clothing he had found. He sheds the cadet uniform and replaced it with a white set. The tunic is padded in all the same place he had ordered his uniforms to be adjusted. The trousers are comfortable. Both are decorated heavily with golden thread.

He does not wear the stripes of a General—he wears more, stripes rising just past his elbow.

“You look… imperial,” Phasma comments when she sees his appearance. She has not commented on Ren’s seemingly comatose form just in the other room.

“Yes, well,” says Hux. “I believe it is time for me to repair my image.”

Ren had used white to make Hux look weak and soft. Hux would use white as a sign of his Empire.

Phasma escorts him to the throne room, where all of the Knights of Ren are waiting. They do not wear their helmets, faces bared to Hux. He cannot read them easily.They look to one another, communicating silently.

“Is Kylo Ren dead?” asks one of the Knights. They’re clearly a Xeno. Hux knows nothing else.

“No,” says Hux. He does not back down. “I have cut him off from the Force.”

There come no objections.

This time a human woman speaks. She says, “What does that make you?”

“I plan to call myself Interim Emperor,” Hux tells the Knights. “Will you continue to serve this Empire?”

The Knights look to one another, sharing in yet another conversation.

Finally, one speaks: “We stand with the Empire. Long live the Interim Emperor.”

The other Knights echo his words.

Hux nods, unwilling to express how surprised he is by their decision.

“If you decide to betray us,” says Phasma, tapping the hilt of her slugthrower with no subtly whatsoever. “There will be consequences.”

“You misunderstand,” says the Xeno. There is a ghost of a smile on their face. “This is the consequence to Kylo Ren’s actions. We have foreseen this and waited for the day. We are satisfied that he still lives.”

This unnerves Hux in a way he cannot truly describe.

“How much did you foresee?” Hux asks carefully.

He had never cared for the Force. Had never respected its wielders. But the pain the Force brought to the Galaxy, over and over again, was incalculable.

Did they betray Ren, then, by standing aside as Ren was collared and cut off from the Force?

“The future is ever shifting,” says the Xeno. “What has come to pass was never certain. What will happen next depends on your choices.”

Hux stares them down, tilting his chin up. “And if I tell you to kneel?”

And, so, the Knight of Ren fall. They kneel, their heads bowed.

Hux feels a thrill of power then.

He is the Empire.

He is the Emperor.

This much is certain.

(For just how long this is allowed, he is uncertain.)

*

Hux makes his first appearance to the Galaxy on the throne. He sits there, Phasma at his side, as a camdroid records his message.

“Citizens of the Galaxy,” Hux says calmly. “Know that you are safe. The Galaxy is at peace. All is well. Emperor Kylo Ren has secured our futures by crushing the Resistance and forming his Empire. As his Imperial Consort, I have seen his noble actions firsthand and praise the Emperor for everything he has done.

“We regret to inform the Galaxy that our beloved Emperor Kylo Ren has suffered a wound in the Force,” Hux says, lying to the Galaxy. “While Emperor Kylo Ren recovers, the Galaxy has been entrusted to me. I will act as Interim Emperor to protect and serve the citizens of the Galaxy.”

The camdroid shutters off.

Phasma nods.

His speech was not as long as any of his older speeches, but he has not been a General for a while. This speech would do. This speech would be enough. This he had to believe.

He does not turn to Phasma and ask, _Was that good enough?_

“Well done, Emperor,” says Phasma.

Hux almost preens, but reigns himself back from that indignity. “Come along, General,” he says instead. “We have much to do.”

*

The Galaxy is in need of a firm, guiding hand. Hux fully intends to deliver this. He has a thousand ideas running through is mind, each to better the Empire.

There are trillions of sentient beings who rely on him and he will do his service as Emperor, to bring peace and prosperity to the Galaxy. This he has long decided.

Ren wanders the palace like a ghost, his eyes wider than stars. They are no longer gold. They grow closer and closer to the amber Hux is accustomed to. This is a relief to him, in a way that Hux cannot explain.

At times, Ren comes before Hux on the throne.

Hux never chases him away.

Ren kneels at the foot of the throne and rests his head upon Hux’s knee. Hux pets his hair very carefully, like one would a loth cat who had scratched you before. It seems that Ren appreciates the gesture. Or, at least, he does not mind it.

He does not mind the collar around his throat.

Perhaps in a kinder universe, there would be no need for collars. There would be no hierarchy between them, just passion and careful regard and a kinship beyond words.

Perhaps in a kinder universe, when they would first meet, Ren would hear Hux’s thoughts, smirk, and flirt in turn.

Perhaps in a kinder universe, when their shuttle crashes on that blasted planet with Bylsma, Hux will call Ren his lover, and it will not be a lie.

Perhaps in a kinder universe, Ren will smile when Hux came to rescue him from the broken surface of Starkiller. Hux will call him a fool. This will be his pet name for Ren. Ren’s will be something softer, like darling or like dear.

Perhaps in a kinder universe, there will be no scavenger, no rebellious Stormtrooper, no Resistance pilots, nothing that could stand in their way. In that kinder universe, there would be no Snoke, no Palpatine.

(In a kinder universe, there never would have been an Empire. Darth Vader would not exist and thus neither would Kylo Ren. Not exactly. All of the Skywalker’s would still be alive. Because there would be no Empire, there would never be a First Order. No more officers, no more Stormtroopers, no more Sith, no more Jedi, no more loathsome Resistance. There would be nothing but peace, prosperity, and joy.)

This universe is not a kind one.

This Galaxy has always known war, though those who wage it change from era to era.

 _No more_ , thinks Hux then, with such stunning clarity. He can still taste kyber against the roof of his mouth. _Let this universe become kind. Let there be no more starving orphans, no more wicked fathers, no more pain and uncertainty._

Hux pets Ren’s hair, because he thinks that Ren enjoys this gesture, because, in a way, he too enjoys the motion.

He believes that these thoughts are his own. Certainly, no one told him to become Emperor now. His mother has long been dead, her ghost left behind on Arkanis.

He is alive when so many others are not.

He knows what he must do. Let the stars themselves watch him.

*

*

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the bitter sweet ending was satisfying :D I just needed to write something painful. The catharsis I got from the writing process really helped me. I hope this can help someone, even if it's a distraction. Wishing you and yours well!


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